Today is the fifth anniversary of the death of the great writer Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Back in 2013 I wrote about the last book of his that I read:
This week’s book was the masterly novella called “Memories of My Melancholy Whores” by Nobel laureate Gabriel Garcia Marquez. It is a slim volume (just 117 pages) that I wolfed down in two return trips on the #20 bus to the library.
Written in the first person, Garcia Marquez tells the story of an unnamed 90-year old man, a writer of sorts who suddenly falls in love with a thirteen year old virgin whom he has procured from an ancient madame as a birthday present to himself. His love is unrequited and unconsummated (his choice) but changes his world completely.
This is a remarkable paean to old age, to the process of ageing, to unexpected love, to music, to solitude and desire. It is the work of a true master of his craft and I loved it.
It is devastatingly sad to know that there will never be more books by this extraordinary artist. However, with bated breath, I await the Netflix adaptation of One Hundred Years of Solitude.